Harry's Relation: Part 1
by ZRSFizzyBongs
Summary: "There are two kinds of people in the world: Artists and Scientists." Eleven-year-old Mark Evans has known for years that he's different from almost everyone around him. Except of course that boy from Privet Drive. While Mark is trying to figure out what's up with Harry Potter this summer, his father Tom struggles with his own past and Mark's future, but time is short. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

**Artists and Scientists** Chapter One – Artists and Scientists

Mark Evans stared at the sheet of paper in front of him. He just didn't see what was fun about maths. It was the thing his mother did all day, as she worked as a mathematician, but Mark clearly hadn't inherited the talent. That was because she was a Scientist, and he was an Artist.

"Mark?"

His teacher was standing next to his desk, smiling.

"You didn't solve much of this," she said, pointing at the sheet. "You're finding it difficult, aren't you?"

"I just can't do it," Mark said angrily. "I'm an Artist!"

"You're an artist? Would you like to do some drawing then?"

Before Mark could explain that an Artist didn't draw, there was a large, empty sheet of paper in front of him. Reluctantly, he took his pencil and sketched a few lines. But it didn't look right, he wasn't very good at drawing. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. A vision appeared behind his eyelids. It was a large house, looking quite usual. But on the top of the roof, there was a statue of a dragon. It was a beautiful statue, the dragon looking almost alive.

Fascinated, Mark kept his eyes shut tightly. He wanted to look at the house as long as possible. Seeing this house always gave him a familiar feeling. Somehow he was connected to the house, and to the dragon.

"Mark?" asked a scared voice.

Mark started, and opened his eyes. For a fleeting moment, he saw his pencil standing upright on his sheet, then there was a clattering sound as the pencil fell down on the desk. On the sheet, a picture was drawn. It was a house, with a statue of a dragon on the roof. It looked like the pencil had drawn by itself.

"Mark, are you all right?" Mark's teacher was bending over him, looking both frightened and anxious.

"Yes, Miss," he replied.

But his teacher didn't go away. She dragged another chair to his desk and sat down, observing him closely. She didn't say anything, but Mark knew why she was looking at him like this. She had never seen a pencil working for itself. She was a Scientist.

Mark glanced around the class. His classmates were all working quietly. No one seemed to have witnessed the pencil draw by itself, except his teacher.

"It's because I'm an Artist," he blurted out.

She smiled. "Yes, I see you can draw very well. But usually, artists don't – don't do it like this."

"Look, there are two kinds of people in the world: Artists and Scientists," Mark tried to explain. "Scientists invent and build things to make their world more comfortable, Artists just use nature to do that."

He could see in her eyes that she didn't understand, but she nodded nonetheless.

"You just finish your drawing now, Mark," she said, "it's almost time to go home."

During the next ten minutes Mark pretended to add some more lines to his picture, but he didn't touch the sheet. He couldn't draw like a Scientist, and he didn't dare to draw like an Artist again.

After school, Mark slowly walked home. When he crossed Privet Drive, he was almost bowled over by a large car. He recognised the car at once as Mr. Dursley's. It was easily the largest car in the whole neighbourhood, and also the most gleaming one. Mr. Dursley washed it every day, or made his nephew Harry Potter do it.

As the car parked in front of number four, Privet Drive, Mark slowed his walk and tried to look unobtrusively at what happened next. Dudley, the fat son of the Dursleys, got out before the car had even stopped properly. Then Mr. and Mrs. Dursley appeared, looking grim. The last person to get out was Harry Potter. Apparently he had just come back from the school he attended during the year. The rumours said he went to St. Brutus Security Centre, but Mark didn't believe that. Harry was always friendly, and often kept to himself. Dudley, on the other hand, always spent his summer holidays bullying all the kids in the neighbourhood with his own little gang. But he didn't go to St. Brutus, he attended Smeltings.

Harry now dragged his large trunk to the front door, the cage with his beautiful snowy owl in his other hand. Just before he went into the house, he turned and looked straight at Mark. Mark stood transfixed. Harry never looked happy whenever he entered the house of his aunt and uncle, especially not the first time after the end of term, but now his eyes were haunted like they had never been before. Somehow, Mark felt something terrible had happened. Something terrible concerning the Artists. Because Harry Potter was an Artist too.

**To be continued...**


	2. Chapter 2

**Artists and Scientists** Chapter 2 – Chocolate

"I presume you know why you are here?"

Tom stared at the woman opposite him. There could be various reasons why he and his wife were talking to his son's teacher, Miss Putnam. Most likely something strange had happened again. Mark was sometimes unhappy at school, and in his case, that could lead to unexpected things.

"I wanted to talk about Mark," Miss Putnam said.

That much was obvious.

"Mark is a bit different than other children," she continued.

Tom sat up straighter in his chair. What could she suspect?

"He doesn't show much interest in learning," Miss Putnam said. "I think it's a bit too difficult for him."

She had said the last words very quiet, and now she looked expectantly at Tom and Amy, but Tom didn't have a clue what he was supposed to say.

"You mean Mark lacks intelligence?" Amy asked in a calm voice, in which only Tom could hear the suppressed anger.

Miss Putnam seemed very relieved they weren't flying off the handle. "Yes, he does, in comparison to other children. I'm sure there's something he has talent for, –" Tom and Amy exchanged a look, "– but he has a hard time keeping up with his classmates on the usual subjects like English and mathematics."

"What would you advise us to do?" Tom asked politely, because he seemed to be expected to ask that, although he would have liked it to just run away and go home.

"Well, that depends," Miss Putnam said. "What school are you sending him to next year?"

Tom and Amy exchanged another look.

"We haven't decided yet," Tom said.

Miss Putnam looked surprised for a moment. Of course she did, because the summer holidays had almost started, and most parents would have chosen a new school months ago. But she didn't know that this pair of parents had a very good reason to wait.

"As I'm sure you know," Miss Putnam said, "some schools have entrance examinations, or only accept students after consulting the primary school. There are schools who would accept Mark, yes, but if you want him to attend a more – prestigious – school, you should take some measures."

Tom started to feel nauseous. There was one prestigious school that would be very happy to accept Mark, but there were different problems concerning that school.

"What kind of measures are we talking about?" Amy asked.

Miss Putnam now looked very uncomfortable.

"You should consider having Mark repeat a year," she said, hardly audible.

"You should tell him, Tom," Amy said.

They were walking home. After telling Mark's teacher they would think about it, they finally managed to get away. Tom knew exactly what Amy was talking about, but he didn't answer. First he had to sort everything out in his own head. He wanted to protect Mark, he didn't want him to go through the same ordeal as he had himself. But he also knew that Mark didn't belong in the world he was in now. He had suspected it for long time, and this talk with Mark's teacher made it very clear. Mark wasn't made to be a scientist, like his mother, or a carpenter, or an accountant. He was made to be a wizard, like his father.

"The letter is bound to come soon," Amy said.

"Yes, I know," Tom replied quietly. "But I don't know how to tell him, Amy. I mean, he's been living among Muggles for his entire life. I don't think he'll understand that there are also other people in the world. He'll probably think it's just another idea for a book I'm planning to write."

"Don't worry, Tom," Amy said. "Don't you think Mark noticed that he is different from other kids? I think it will be a relief for him to know that there are more people like him."

"He'll want to join them," Tom stated flatly.

At once Amy grabbed his arm and stopped walking. "Tom, we've agreed about this. We'll let Mark make his own choice. We can't force him to stay in the Muggle world."

"Yes, he has to choose for himself," Tom said, "but how can he ever make a wise decision about this when he don't know about – about the dangers."

"I think," Amy said slowly, "that _you_ should tell him that."

Tom stared. "You – I can't – he's only eleven! I don't want to tell him _that_!"

"You have to."

They started walking again. Thoughts were whirling through Tom's head. He wanted Mark to make his own choice. He wanted him to make the right choice. He wanted him to know what might be awaiting him. And now was the moment to make the choice. Mark had to know now. Eleven or not, Tom had to tell Mark.

"Yes, you're right," he said.

Tom couldn't sleep. He couldn't get his mind to quiet down, he couldn't stop thinking about the task that was ahead of him. He had this strange feeling that he wouldn't be able to sleep properly until he had told Mark about the wizarding world, but also he knew tonight was not the right moment. It was past midnight already, Mark was asleep.

Tom stepped out of bed, careful not to wake up Amy. He walked down the stairs and into the kitchen. He was going to make some hot chocolate. It was a habit he had copied from his mother. He could remember vividly the nights he had sat in the kitchen until late, talking with his parents while drinking hot chocolate. After that, he always would fall asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.

The last night that had happened was just before he had returned to Hogwarts for his sixth year. They had been talking about wizarding professions. Tom's mother had been an Auror, while his father worked as a Healer in St. Mungo's. Although Tom had received the OWLs needed for both jobs, he had been more interested in hiding the wizarding world from Muggles, especially in hiding magical creatures. So he had chosen Muggles Studies, Care of Magical Creatures and Charms for his NEWTs. His father had been happy with that, but his mother would've liked him to become an Auror as well. They had a slight disagreement about that, but arguing just didn't work when you were drinking hot chocolate. So it had been a nice evening.

A few days later, Tom had gone back to Hogwarts. He had never seen his parents again.

"Dad?"

Tom quickly turned around. "Mark? What are you doing up so late?"

"I couldn't sleep," Mark answered.

Tom smiled. "I couldn't sleep either. Would you like some hot chocolate? That helps."

Mark nodded and sat down at the kitchen table.

A couple of minutes later, they were both drinking hot chocolate in their pyjamas. While Tom watched his son, a huge battle was going on in his head. This seemed to be the perfect moment to tell Mark about the wizarding world. Mark was awake anyway, and Tom would be able to sleep after he had told Mark everything. Hot chocolate always caused good conversations, he had had quite a few of them with his own parents. But, the other side argued, could he stand telling about his parents in such a familiar situation? And wasn't this supposed to be a serious talk, thus not very suitable while enjoying hot chocolate? No, the side in favour of telling Mark now said, both Tom and Mark were calm, and there was plenty of time. It was the perfect moment. But it was still past midnight. Mark was too sleepy now, he would understand much better by day.

"Dad?" Mark interrupted Tom's thoughts. "Do you know the Dursley family, of number four, Privet Drive?"

"I don't think so," Tom said bewildered, "what's the matter with them?"

"Don't you know them? They have this very fat son, Dudley, he's even fatter than his father. And their nephew lives also with them."

"Oh, I think I've seen them a couple of times. Dursley, did you say?"

"Yes, and the nephew is called Harry Potter," Mark said. "Do you know him?"

"I might have seen him once or twice," Tom answered.

"But you don't know anything about him?" Mark pressed.

"No, I didn't even know his name," Tom replied.

"He came back home for the summer holidays yesterday. He looked – upset."

Tom stared at his son. What was Mark talking about? Why would he care about that boy looking upset? Tom had never heard Mark talk about Harry before.

"Are you and Harry friends?" Tom asked.

"No, he doesn't know me, I think," said Mark. "He's a lot older than me."

Mark obviously wanted to tell something about Harry Potter. Tom decided that waiting would be the best strategy.

"I don't think he likes living with his relatives," Mark finally continued. "He's is much different than his cousin. Maybe it's because of that. But I don't know why he's upset. Something happened."

Tom suddenly felt very tired. He didn't have a clue what Mark was trying to say, and apparently Mark couldn't string two sentences together about it. Tom suspected it was because Mark was also very sleepy. It was a quarter past one, much too late for an eleven-year-old boy, and for a forty-year-old man as well.

Not the perfect moment after all.

**To be continued...**


	3. Chapter 3

**Artists and Scientists** Chapter 3 – The House

Mark stared at the perfectly normal house. Despite the late-night talk with his father, he had woken early this morning. After breakfast he had gone outside, and although he didn't remember telling them to, his feet had walked him to Privet Drive. Now he sat on a stone wall, watching number four. It was only half past eight, but the sun was shining and Mark was perfectly warm. The summer had began, although there was still a week of school to go before the holidays started. It would be the very last week Mark would spend at this school. In September, he would go to Stonewall High. At least, he presumed he would. His parents had never spoken a word about his new school.

But today was Saturday, and there was nothing to worry about. Except that Mark couldn't get the thought of Harry Potter to leave his head. The way he had looked when he came home – although Mark was fairly sure that while Harry had looked at him, he hadn't seen him – had been all Mark could think about for two days. He had tried to tell his father about it yesterday night, but he had found he couldn't explain it clearly.

So now he was watching Harry Potter's house. Not that much interesting was to be seen. The house seemed identical to number two and number six. Still, Mark didn't want to go away. He sensed something Artistic around the house.

Suddenly, movement caught his eye. Something white was flying above his head. Mark looked up, and saw Harry's snowy owl soaring towards one of the windows of number four. Nothing out of the ordinary, as owls liked to hunt at night. Mark just wanted to turn back to watching the house when he spotted something strange about the owl. He narrowed his eyes, and when the owl slowed down before flying through the open window, he saw it very clearly. A roll of yellowish paper was attached to the owl's leg. Harry's owl was carrying a letter.

Mark was fascinated. How brilliant, to use owls to deliver post! Maybe it was something practised by all Artists. Mark never saw many owls flying around in Little Whinging, but then, it was a very Scientific town. He tried to remember about the house in the only other town he had lived. The house with the dragon statue on the roof.

"_Look, Daddy!" Mark cried. "That house over there, it has a dragon on the roof!"_

"_Mark, no! Come back!"_

_But Mark was already running to the house. It fascinated him, and he had to get a closer look. Daddy's footsteps were pounding behind him. Mark tried to run faster, but it was too late. Daddy's strong arms closed around him, and he was lifted from the ground._

_Mark tried to kick him. "I want to see, Daddy!"_

"_You'd better not, Mark," Daddy said. "Stay away from that house!"_

Mark smiled when he recalled the memory. His father had been showing him the town, and this had been the very first time he saw that house. He had felt connected to it immediately. It had always attracted him, and he had been back to it many times, until they moved to Litttle Whinging.

Mark was started out of his memories when a clattering noise broke the silence in Privet Drive. He looked around, and spotted the dustbin of number three lying on its side. But there was no one around except Mark. Did he do this? He walked slowly to the dustbin, trying not to attract attention. When he was almost there, he felt his foot connect with something. There wasn't anything in sight, but he clearly heard a thud and someone moaning.

Mark stood very still for a moment, then he walked back to the wall and sat down again. The person who had knocked the dustbin over was probably the same as who had tripped over his foot. And as Mark couldn't see anyone, the culprit was invisible. Now he knew what he had sensed around Harry's house. There was another Artist around here, and a rather clumsy one.

_Mark was sitting on the ground, watching the house with the dragon on the roof. He sat here often. He had now watched the house for almost half an hour, but nothing had happened. The house had been silent, most probably empty._

_Mark scrambled to his feet and crossed the street. He was going to do something he had never done before, and which his father had forbidden him the very first time he had seen the house. He walked to the garden fence and carefully climbed over it. He was sure the house was empty, otherwise he wouldn't have dared. He walked through the large garden. He didn't go to the front door, but to a window to the right of the door. He checked the road – no one was there. Then he looked inside._

_At first glance, it looked like an ordinary kitchen. Then he noticed there was no cooker. There was no cooker hood either, and no oven._

_Mark moved to another window. This was the living room. But there was no television. And something else was missing. There was obviously something missing, but what was it? Mark tried to picture his own living room in his mind. Then he realised that there were no lamps._

_Suddenly, someone entered the room. Mark ducked immediately and crawled away from the window. How could there be someone at home? The house had been empty, he had been sure, and no one had entered through the front door. Mark was scared. He quickly walked back through the garden, jumped over the fence, crossed the street and sat down on his usual place on the sidewalk._

_He saw a light go on. It shone through the window where Mark had been standing a few minutes ago. At once, Mark wasn't scared any more. He felt at home._

_Someone shouted, and to Mark's surprise, there was someone lying on the street in a heap. The man was wearing violet robes. Not very handy, as he seemed to be entangled in them. Finally he managed to get to his feet. He looked around, and cursed._

"_I'm fifty feet astray! Again!" he yelled angrily._

_Then the man spotted Mark. They stared at each other until the man turned around and walked to the house with the dragon on the roof. He seemed to shout out a greeting to the dragon, but the dragon didn't move. The man knocked on the door, which opened of its own accord. He went inside._

_Mark waited a couple of minutes, but nothing else happened. He went home, happy, because he had learned a lot of things._

Mark kept watching Harry Potter's house, just as he had often watched the house with the statue of a dragon on the roof. But nothing at all happened. When finally a big face appeared behind one of the windows, and Mark decided he'd better go home in case Dudley had seen him and marked him as his next target, Mark was no nearer to finding out what had happened to make Harry so miserable.

While he strolled home, he tried to recall the look Harry had had in his eyes when he arrived home two days ago, but the only face that appeared was that of his father's, looking equally miserable. That was the way his father looked every time Mark asked him about his family. His father never told him anything else than that Mark's grandparents had died and that no family was left, and the look in his eyes always made Mark regret that he had asked. But why was Harry looking the same way? Did Harry's parents also die? Yes, of course they did, otherwise Harry wouldn't be living with his aunt and uncle, but that was not what happened between this summer and the last one. Maybe Harry lost someone else he loved. But then it would have nothing to do with the Artistic World.

On the other hand, did all people who lost someone look this way? Mark didn't know. Perhaps dying in a Scientific way was not the same as dying in an Artistic way, and the latter made you have this look. No, that was impossible, because Mark's grandparents had been Scientists. Or hadn't they? But if they had been Artists, why hadn't Mark's father ever told him?

Mark was totally confused. He just couldn't solve this on his own. He would have to ask his father.

But when he stepped inside his house, the smell of lunch drove it all clean out of his mind.

**To be continued...**


	4. Chapter 4

**Artists and Scientists** Chapter 4 – Drawing and Baking

Tom watched Mark disappear to his room after breakfast. The summer holidays had started – this was the first Monday Mark didn't have to go to school. And they still hadn't talked about magic. Mark's teacher had called again last Thursday, but Amy had answered the phone and efficiently brushed her off, only to look straight at Tom and tell him he really needed to hurry up right after she had put the receiver down.

But Tom was still waiting for the perfect moment. This week had been busy. He had had a moment of inspiration and spent a lot of time behind his computer to type a new chapter of the book he was working on, so he hadn't seen Mark much. And this weekend they had gone to visit Amy's parents. The only possible moment had been in the car while driving home, but Tom didn't feel comfortable about that. He wanted to be able to look Mark in the eye while telling him everything.

Everything. Tom didn't even want to think about everything. Of course, he had pleasant memories as well. His Sorting on the first day at Hogwarts, searching for secret passages later on, when he had become more familiar with the castle, and of course Potions, in which he had excelled. But he would have to tell Mark about the less pleasant ones too. He could still see the face of McGonagall, the Head of his House, that evening in his sixth year, when she came into the common room to tell him about his parents. And the face of Uncle Roger still hunted his nightmares.

A door slammed and Tom returned to the present with a start. He looked up to see Amy bursting into the kitchen.

"I'm off," she said, reaching for her car keys, but grabbing a spoon instead. She was halfway to the door when she noticed. For a moment, she just looked at the spoon, then she slowly walked back and picked up the car keys. Mark seized her arms. She turned to him with a distant look in her eyes.

"If you're going to drive," he said, "you'll have to stop thinking about that problem until you've arrived."

Very slowly, the words seemed to progress into Amy's brain. Finally she snapped out of it and smiled at him. She had once told him that all mathematicians were like that: always thinking about some problem they wanted to solve, and therefore not always walking with both feet on the ground.

"And you," Amy said, "make sure you take a break from that book to play with Mark today, or he'll be alone all day."

Tom opened his mouth to say he could play with friends, but Amy had already gone. And he knew that Mark didn't often play with friends. He did have some friends, but he just didn't like playing with them much. Last week, he had been outside all of Saturday morning, but Tom suspected he had just walked around and sat in the park. He smiled. It was just like he had done sometimes, when he had been visiting his grandparents, who had lived not far from here. Young Tom had spend those days watching Muggles, but Mark certainly wasn't doing that when he was outside.

Today, the weather wasn't very good, and Mark had gone to his room. Reading, maybe, or just being bored.

Tom sighed. His book would have to wait.

He went to Mark's room. Mark was sitting on his bed, paper and pencil in his hand. The floor was littered with balls of paper. Mark looked up and smiled half-heartedly at his father.

"Doesn't your pencil do what you want it to do?" Tom asked.

"No! I can't draw today!" Mark exclaimed. "I can't usually draw, but last week at school I could!"

One of the balls on the floor caught fire. Tom quickly put his shoe down on it and prevented more damage.

"I'm sorry!" cried Mark upset.

"You don't have to be, it was an accident."

_Tell him! Tell him about accidental magic! Tell him now!_

But Tom didn't feel comfortable. It wouldn't do any good to start this difficult talk while he was standing in the doorway and Mark was upset. No, first he needed to get them both to relax.

Tom sat down and took Mark's sketchbook. "I can't draw either, I'll show you."

He started to draw something, and it wasn't until the picture was half-finished that he realised with a shock what he was drawing. It was Uncle Roger's face. The friendly face of the man he had come to trust immediately, despite not having met him until he was seventeen. The smiling face of the man who had offered to take him in after he had finished school, despite the fact Tom was a wizard. The face of the man he had only seen at Christmas and Easter during his seventh year, but whose loss had even more impact than that of his parents. The man who shouldn't have died. The man whose death changed Tom's life.

Tom drew this face. He tried to show both the rich smile and the sadness in the eyes. But as he had promised Mark, he failed miserably. He started to laugh, and Mark followed. They laughed and laughed, until they both felt much better.

"Come on," Tom said when he finally had caught his breath. "Let's bake a cake. We'll surprise Mum when she comes home."

They went downstairs, to the kitchen. It took a while before they had found the correct recipe, and they had a fit of giggles again when they found out, after ten minutes of fruitless attempts to get the electric mixer to work, that the plug wasn't in the socket.

While Mark was mixing the flour and the eggs, Tom looked out of the window and spotted a black dot in the air, steadily increasing in size. He watched the bird absent-mindedly until he realised that it looked suspiciously like an owl. His breath caught in his chest. He hadn't told Mark yet! But the owl flew high over the house and didn't return.

After half an hour of preparing (forty minutes if you counted the trouble with the electric mixer) they put the cake into the oven and sat down at the kitchen table. Mark looked down at the table and Tom looked at Mark.

Suddenly, Mark looked up. "Dad, what happened to your family?"

Tom stared at his son. This was it. He would tell him. Now.

"There's something I need to tell you, Mark."

**To be continued...**


	5. Chapter 5

**Artists and Scientists** Chapter 5 – The Story

"There's something I need to tell you, Mark."

Mark frowned. Of course there was something he needed to know, about his grandparents. But his father didn't sound like he usually did when Mark asked about that. Was he just trying to distract him?

"About my grandparents?" Mark asked challenging.

His father hesitated. "Yes, but also about something else. Mark, your grandparents were a bit different. They lived in a different way than most people do. And you, Mark, inherited that. You're also different."

Mark already knew that. So his grandparents were Artists too.

"Remember what happened today?" his father asked. "When you were drawing and the paper caught fire?"

Mark nodded.

"Well, most people can't set things on fire like that. They need a match to do it. But there are people, like you, and like your grandparents, who don't need a match."

Mark's father was silent for a moment, and Mark also didn't know what to say. He knew why he could set things on fire without a match. It was because he was an Artist. But he couldn't see where this was going.

Finally, his father spoke again. "Mark, you can use magic. You're a wizard."

"All right," said Mark. "But what's that got to do with my grandparents? Why don't you have any family?"

"But – why –" his father began. "Mark, forget about my family for a moment. No, listen to me. I've got to tell you something else first."

Mark folded his arms and sat back. Yes, he would listen, but he wouldn't let his father escape this time. He wanted to know about his family today.

"Mark," his father started again, "you need to understand what it means that you're a wizard. Most people are Muggles, that is, non-magical. But you've got a talent Muggles don't have. You can do magic."

"I already knew that," Mark said bored. "It's because I'm an Artist."

His father looked utterly surprised. "What are Artists? You don't mean – painters?"

"No, not like that. Artists are wizards. It's just how I called them. I knew I was an Artist, and most people were Scientists, I just didn't know that Artists were wizards and Scientists were Muggles. But now I know."

"All right," his father said, but he didn't look convinced. "You need to know that there are many wizards and witches in Britain. They usually live in secret, though –"

Mark couldn't help himself. "My grandparents live in secret?!"

His father glared.

"There's a whole wizarding community," he continued after a moment. "There even is a special school for wizards."

Mark sat up straighter, his eyes wide. So that was why his parents hadn't talked about a new school. He was going to a wizard school!

"In a few weeks, you will receive an invitation for this school. If you accept, you will enter the wizarding world. If you refuse, you will stay in the Muggle world."

"Why would I refuse?" Mark asked, perplexed.

A sad look appeared in his father's eyes. "That's what I'm going to tell you now. Entering the wizarding world is dangerous, Mark. Not every wizard is friendly. There are wizards who think that there shouldn't be any Muggles in the world. They think people like your mother shouldn't live."

"But – they can't –"

"I'm going to tell you the story of my family, Mark. It'll teach you what dangers there are in the wizarding world."

He paused for a moment, took a deep breath, and started.

"My father – your grandfather – was the first wizard in a Muggle family. His parents didn't mind that, but his brother Roger did. Uncle Roger thought wizards were bad, and strange. He was afraid of magic, and didn't want to know his brother any more. My father married a witch, and I was their only child. Of course I was also a wizard. When I turned eleven, I started Hogwarts – the magical school. While I was at school, a very bad wizard was gathering followers. His name was – V-Voldemort. Everyone was very scared of him. They called him You-Know-Who, because no one dared to say the name. He did very bad things.

"My mother was an Auror. She tried to catch Dark Wizards. She captured a couple of You-Know-Who's followers and threw them in prison, but of course, You-Know-Who didn't like that. She and my father were killed."

"I'm sorry, Dad," Mark said quietly. "I shouldn't have asked."

His father grabbed his hand and held it tight. "You need to know, Mark. I'm telling you both the good and the bad things about the magical world. You need to know everything to make a good choice. Do you understand?"

Mark nodded. "So what about Uncle Roger?"

"Shortly after my parents died, Uncle Roger tried to meet me. I had never seen him before, because he was estranged from my father. But he told me he had changed his mind. He had tried to find his brother again. When he discovered that my father was killed, he started to investigate the case. But followers of You-Know-Who killed him too. And his wife. And his parents, my grandparents. That's when I decided the wizarding world was something I should stay far from. I snapped my wand in half and became a Muggle."

Mark thought about that for a while. The magical world didn't seem very attractive now. His father had left it, and for good reason.

"You became a Muggle," Mark said slowly, "after your parents, your grandparents and your uncle were killed. That's – that's horrible."

"Mark, don't look like that," his father said urgently. "I don't know how it is in the magical world today. I haven't been in contact with any wizards for more than twenty years. For all I know, You-Know-Who might have been defeated years ago."

Mark looked up at his father. "So it might be safe now?"

"Well, I don't know," his father said. "I don't think it will ever be perfectly safe. Wizards are very powerful, and there are always people who try to abuse that."

For a few minutes they were both silent. Mark tried to sort out everything in his head, but it didn't work. He couldn't help thinking that everything would've been better if he hadn't asked. If he hadn't wondered about his family. Then he would still have been able to dream about an perfect Artistic world.

"Mark," his father finally said, "there's more."

"I don't want to hear more," Mark said, looking down.

"Not everything of being a wizard is bad, Mark, I want to tell you that. There are lots of nice things, too. I really liked the years I was a wizard and attended Hogwarts."

"Hogwarts?" Mark said. "That's the school, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is," his father said. "But it very different from Muggle schools. You don't have to do mathematics, or geography, but there's Transfiguration, and Potions."

Mark suddenly felt excited. "What's Transfiguration? Can you do some magic?"

"I'm sorry, Mark, I can't. When a wizard purposefully snaps his own wand in half, he loses all his magical powers. I was once a wizard, but I'm not any more." Seeing Mark's disappointed face he continued, "But I can explain about Transfiguration, and all of the other classes."

The next fifteen minutes, Mark's father talked to him about everything at Hogwarts. Not only about the classes, but also about the Houses, the detentions and the secret passageways. Mark thoroughly enjoyed all the stories, but finally they had to stop, because the cake was ready. While his father took the cake out of the oven, something strange suddenly occurred to Mark. He couldn't help it, he needed to know the answer.

"Dad? Do you know why Uncle Roger changed his mind about wizards?"

His father sat down at the kitchen table. "Yes ... he told me ... but I forgot. Let me think –"

Impatiently, Mark waited. After what seemed an eternity, his father's face brightened.

"Yes, I remember. It often happens that in a Muggle family, more than one wizard or witch is born. That was exactly what happened to Uncle Roger. He hated his brother because he was a wizard, but then he married and got children. I believe he had two daughters. When his youngest daughter turned eleven, a Hogwarts letter arrived."

Mark gasped. "But he hated wizards! So he hated his daughter!"

His father smiled. "No, he didn't. Yes, he hated wizards, but he couldn't help but love his daughter. His wife also thought it was wonderful to have a witch in the family, and the girl went off to Hogwarts. During a few years, Uncle Roger watched his daughter closely, and finally realised that the wizarding world was nothing to be afraid of. Then he decided to try and find his brother again."

"And he was killed."

"Yes."

"But his daughters weren't."

Mark's father stared. His eyes grew wide, and finally he said slowly, "I don't think so."

"So there's some family after all!" Mark said happily.

"I suppose ..."

Absent-mindedly, his father stood up and started to cut off two slices of cake. When he was finished, he walked back to the table and looked at Mark seriously.

"Now, Mark," he said, "do you want to be a wizard or not?"

Mark thought hard for a moment. He thought about the past year at school, he thought about the house with the dragon statue on the roof, he thought about the stories his father had told – the good and the bad ones.

"I don't belong here," he said. "I can't do Muggle things. I'm really bad at school." He looked pleadingly at his father, who smiled faintly.

"You can make your own choice, Mark."

Mark had already decided, and when he looked at his father, he saw that a true smile broke through on his face.

"I'm a wizard."

THE END

**Author's note:** I hope this chapter answered a few of the most urgent questions, although I know not all of them have been answered. Of course, for Mark and his parents, things have only just begun. Therefore, there will be a sequel. I hope you will all read and enjoy it.

**Thanks for reading!**


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